Sabine Farmer's Serenade, The

            I

'Twas on a windy night,
    At two o'clock in the morning,
An Irish lad so tight,
    All wind and weather scorning,
At Judy Callaghan's door.
    Sitting upon the palings,
His love-tale he did pour,
    And this was part of his wailings:-
    Only say
You'll be Mrs. Brallaghan;
    Don't say nay,
Charming Judy Callaghan.

            II

Oh! list to what I say,
    Charms you've got like Venus;
Own your love you may,
    There's but the wall between us.
You lie fast asleep
    Snug in bed and snoring;
Round the house I creep,
    Your hard heart imploring.
    Only say
You'll have Mr. Brallaghan;
    Don't say nay,
Charming Judy Callaghan.

            III

I've got a pig and a sow,
    I've got a sty to sleep 'em
A calf and a brindled cow,
    And a cabin too, to keep 'em;
Sunday hat and coat,
    An old grey mare to ride on,
Saddle and bridle to boot,
    Which you may ride astride on.
    Only say
You'll be Mrs. Brallaghan;
    Don't say nay,
Charming Judy Callaghan.

            IV

I've got an acre of ground,
    I've got it set with praties;
I've got of 'baccy a pound,
    I've got some tea for the ladies;
I've got the ring to wed,
    Some whisky to make us gaily;
I've got a feather bed
    And a handsome new shillelagh.
    Only say
You'll have Mr. Brallaghan;
    Don't say nay,
Charming Judy Callaghan.

            V

You've got a charming eye,
    You've got some spelling and reading
You've got, and so have I,
    A taste for genteel breeding;
You're rich, and fair, and young,
    As everybody's knowing;
You've got a decent tongue
    Whene'er 'tis set a-going.
    Only say
You'll be Mrs. Brallaghan;
    Don't say nay,
Charming Judy Callaghan.

            VI

For a wife till death
    I am willing to take ye;
But, och! I waste my breath,
    The devil himself can't wake ye.
'Tis just beginning to rain,
    So I'll get under cover;
To-morrow I'll come again,
    And be your constant lover.
    Only say
You'll be Mrs. Brallaghan;
    Don't say nay,
Charming Judy Callaghan.

Father Prout

Father Prout is the pen name of Francis Sylvester Mahony, an Irish humorist, poet, and priest. He was born in 1804 in Cork, Ireland, and died in 1866 in Paris, France. Mahony is best known for his series of humorous papers, originally published in Fraser's Magazine, which were later collected as 'The Reliques of Father Prout.' His works often blended classical literature with local Irish topics, creating a unique and entertaining style.

Father Prout

Malbrouck

Father Prout, Simple Poetry

English

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'Enter' MRS. BULKLEY,
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HOLD, Ma'am, your pardon. What's your business here?

MISS CATLEY.
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MRS. BULKLEY.
The Epilogue?

MISS CATLEY.
Yes, the Epilogue, my dear.

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The Fudges In England. Letter V. From Larry O'Branigan, In England, To His Wife Judy, At Mullinafad.

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And there were the childher, six innocent sowls,
For their nate little play-fellow turning up howls;
While yourself, my dear Judy (tho' grievin's a folly),
Stud over Julianna's remains, melancholy--
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Fair Janet

The Text.--Of seven or eight variants of this ballad, only three preserve the full form of the story. On the whole, the one here given--from Sharp's Ballad Book, as sung by an old woman in Perthshire--is the best, as the other two--from Herd's Scots Songs, and the Kinloch MSS.--are slightly contaminated by extraneous matter.

The Story is a simple ballad-tale of 'true-love twinned'; but the episode of the dancing forms a link with a number of German and Scandinavian ballads, in which compulsory dancing and horse-riding is made a test of the guilt of an accused maiden. In the Scotch ballad the horse-riding has shrunk almost to nothing, and the dancing is not compulsory. The resemblance is faint, and the barbarities of the Continental versions are happily wanting in our ballad.


FAIR JANET

...

Frank Sidgwick

Cospatrick

The Text is that of Scott's Minstrelsy (1802). It was 'taken down from the recitation of a lady' (his mother's sister, Miss Christian Rutherford), and collated with a copy in the Tytler-Brown MS. The ballad is also called Gil Brenton, Lord Dingwall, Bangwell, Bengwill, or Brangwill, Bothwell, etc.

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Frank Sidgwick